


Sleepless Nights

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, crack!pairing???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isco is an overworked college student. Iker is his roommate/sort-of boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> consider this a formal apology for how disjointed this fic is

It was hard to sleep with the constant reminder that nothing was good enough. The sheets felt heavy, the air was suffocating, even standing on his own two feet required too much effort. His legs felt too weak, and his movement wasnt fast enough. He didn't understand. He just didn't understand why he couldn't push himself harder. To be the best, he told himself, he had to be perfect, and perfect wasnt achieved by sitting on his ass or doing something as useless as sleeping.

"How's everything with you?" Iker asked, dreadfully cheerful for 4 am. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

Isco shrugged. "You haven't. I've been working."

"Yeah." Iker stuffed his face into Isco's warm shoulder. "But you used to be fun," he said, and Isco could feel Iker’s breath against his cheek.

He pushed him off lightly. "I'm not anymore." He rubbed his eyes with loose fists, extending his hand to snap in Iker's ear. "Hand me that."

Iker rolled his eyes, a small pout forming on his lips. Isco pointedly looked away. "What, this?" He held up the energy drink, and Isco nodded. "Jesus," he said, throwing it over. "When was the last time you actually slept for more than two hours at a time?"

Isco shrugged. "Paper due tomorrow."

"Then sleep tomorrow."

"Paper due Wednesday."

"Jesus," Iker said again, but he stumbled into his own room and didn't come out again until morning.

  


Iker made pancakes in the morning. He always stood barefoot on the tiles, wide-eyed, shirtless, exhausted but awake. His hair stuck up like feathers in the back, and he spilled pancake batter on his chest.

"Hey," he said, kissing Isco's cheek. He used to try for lips, but it had been awhile since that kind of advance was welcome. “Made pancakes."

"Oh." He continued typing, adjusted his glasses, rubbed at the spot behind his ear that used to make him laugh. "Well, set it on the table. I’ll eat when I have time."

Iker hesitated, looking down like there was something he needed to re-learn to say. "Are you coming to bed tonight?"

"Dunno. Thanks."

Iker felt like kicking the wall, but he put his hands on his hips and turned away, leaving the plate next to Isco's computer.

  


The plate was still full when Iker returned from class. Isco wasn't home, but there was a note on the counter:

_Had to grab something from the library. Your leftovers from last night are in the fridge. Don't wait up._

Iker heated up the rest of his burrito, bit in without really tasting.

  


There was a time after that when the first snow of the year fell from the sky, and Iker shoved his arms into the sleeves of his navy blue jacket, and Isco tucked into his gray coat. Iker held onto his jacket as they stood trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

They kissed for the first time in a long time, and it tasted like resignation. Iker caught a snowflake, and Isco tasted it on his lips.

"You going to be working tonight?"

Isco touched his shoulder, his hand, brushed against his cheek with breathless ease. "No," he said finally.

Iker put his hands in his pockets. "Okay," he said. "Okay." And he lifted Isco's hand, turned it over so his palm was facing upward, and just when Isco thought he would force their hands together, Iker said, “That’s the line that's supposed to tell you about your love life."

Isco watched the way his mouth twisted with mirth. "And?"

"It just looks like a very long and thin penis."

"Well," he said, feeling warm and happy and calm, "That does pretty accurately describe my love life."

  


The next morning was one of those days that Iker tucked his little body into the space Isco mentally reserved for him-- between his arms and his chest, felt like between his rib cages or growing over his lungs.

"Don't move," Iker complained into his chest. "I swear to God, I just--" And his eyes shut, breathing steadied, mouth remained hanging open.

(Isco remembered when they were taking the train from London and how he'd told Iker, "Don't you dare fall asleep, alright?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to fall asleep on a moving train. Jesus, Isco, honestly."

But fifteen minutes later, he was sleepily curling into Isco's side, hands stuffed into borrowed scarlet mittens. His cheeks were pink halfway into the ride, and he was snoring lightly when they arrived.

Isco shook him awake just before the doors opened. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Iker rubbed his eyes, let out a soft laugh. “You’re just lucky I didn’t fall asleep on you.” He shook a tired finger in Isco’s direction.)

  


Iker was making spaghetti in the kitchen in boxers the color of burnt grass, hands speckled with marinara sauce. His eyes lit up every time he dropped a handful of dry noodles into the pot of boiling water.

“It’s just so _cool_ \-- that sound-- Isco, have you heard this sound?” he called over his shoulder. His socks were the same dirty white as the cracks between the kitchen tiles.

“What?” Isco asked distractedly. He flicked his headphones off, licked his lips, and tried not to look back at his screen right away. He flexed his fingers impatiently.

“It’s--” Iker hesitated. He turned back around to hide his disappointment. “No, it’s nothing.”

Isco watched his back, watched as his shoulders slumped and he didn’t bang so loudly with the wooden spoon. He stirred slower, and when he turned back around to find something to loosen the jar of olives, Isco quickly glanced down like he hadn’t been watching the whole time.

It was hard, Isco thought. It was so fucking hard trying to be perfect because sacrifices had to be made. He had to be silent when he should have spoken. He had to force his hands to turn to stone when he felt like reaching out and touching Iker and making him better.

“I made pasta,” Iker finally announced like it hadn’t been obvious the whole time.

Isco hit enter, rubbed his eyes. Started a new paragraph on the martyr queen’s remains. “Not hungry.”

  


Later, Iker told him, “I’m sick of this, you know? Never seeing you. It just doesn’t make sense.”

And Isco knew that Iker needed him, just once in awhile, to go out and smile and hold his hand and pretend that everything was normal. Iker needed him to pretend that this obsession wasn’t killing him, that shutting himself inside of their apartment for weeks on end wasn’t absolutely draining the life out of him, but he was just so fucking tired-- the kind of exhaustion that settled in his bones and slipped under his ribcage and took the place Iker was meant to occupy.

Isco shut his computer, but kept his hand flat against the top. He’d been trying to work in bed because sometimes Iker leaned over and mouthed at his neck or put his hand on Isco’s back and just made everything seem like it was going to be okay. He didn’t say anything, but he bit his lip and nodded like that was enough.

“Okay,” he said, and he pulled the covers off, dragged the blanket off the bed, and made his way over to the couch.

Isco shut his eyes, rolled over, but he didn’t get up.

  


Iker was making pancakes again and Isco fucked everything up. He flicked the stove off, put away the pan, put the clean dishes back in the sink, and grabbed Iker by the front of his shirt. He touched the back of his head where his hair stood up like feathers.

“I don’t mean it--I don’t want things to be like this.”

“They are like this,” Iker said exasperatedly. “Your stupid fucking papers are more important than your stupid fucking boyfriend and your stupid fucking life.” He threw his towel down, brushed at his face like he felt foolish for doing it.

Isco touched his face, his shoulder, the back of his neck. “They’re nothing,” he said finally. “They’re nothing compared to.” He finished. Swallowed uncomfortably. “You.” He bobbed his head awkwardly.

Iker ditched breakfast, dragged Isco back to bed. They pulled the sheets over themselves, and Iker rested his head on Isco’s chest until they fell asleep.

  
  



End file.
